Max
Max considered himself a decent guy—well, relatively decent, at least. He didn't go out of his way to cause trouble, and he certainly didn't seek out the messy entanglements that seemed to follow most people through life like persistent shadows. Drama? No thanks. Relationships, with their inevitable emotional rollercoasters? Hard pass. Family gatherings, where every conversation was a minefield of passive-aggressive commentary? He'd rather binge an entire anime season in one sitting.
But anime—now that was his one true indulgence, his singular "sin" in an otherwise drama-free existence. As a self-proclaimed super weeb and two-time Otaku League champion, Max wore his obsession like a badge of honor. These days, he was deep into the Isekai genre, living vicariously through protagonists who got whisked away to fantastical worlds filled with magic, adventure, and absolutely zero family drama.
Like countless weebs before him, he'd fantasized about his own Isekai moment, even going so far as to wait outside his high school on the last day, eyes scanning the street for the legendary Truck-kun. But the universe, it seemed, had other plans. No truck came. No portal opened. Just the anticlimactic reality of moving boxes and college brochures.
University began with reluctant acceptance. Max's ambitions were modest: keep his head down, avoid unnecessary entanglements, and maybe—just maybe—start an anime club where he could finally meet his people. Fellow weebs. Kindred spirits who understood the profound philosophical depths of Tensura or Konosuba or EIS and could debate power scaling until 3 AM.
So why, why, was he currently surrounded by the university's gym club?
The gym rats stood around him in a semicircle, all bronzed muscle and protein-shake confidence, spouting their usual mantras about motivation, discipline, and how "gains get you the wins, bro." Max wanted to roll his eyes, but he needed them. They were swimming in funding—easily one of the richest organizations on campus—and several other club enthusiasts had also shown up, all desperately seeking that sweet, sweet sponsorship money.
What followed was exactly the kind of drama Max had spent his entire life avoiding. And yet here he was, about to say yes anyway.
The gym club leader, a guy named Chad (because of course his name was Chad), stood before them with arms crossed and a grin that screamed trouble.
"Alright, losers—I mean, future champions," he announced without an ounce of apology. "Tomorrow marks the beginning of No Nut November. And since we're all about discipline and self-control here at the gym club, here's your challenge: make it through the entire month without nutting."
Max's eye twitched.
"To verify your commitment," Chad continued, flexing unnecessarily, "each of you will room with one of our members. They'll be your accountability partner. Complete the challenge, get their certification at the end, and you'll have our full support—funding, promotion, the works."
It was absurd. It was juvenile. It was exactly the kind of drama Max had promised himself he'd avoid. But as he thought about his fellow weebs out there somewhere, waiting for someone to create a space where they could belong, he felt something shift in his chest—not quite determination, but close enough. He'd survived high school. He'd survived waiting for Truck-kun in vain. He could survive this.
With a resigned sigh that came from somewhere deep in his soul, Max accepted the challenge.
The first week was torture. Every attractive person on campus suddenly seemed to multiply, appearing at every corner like NPCs programmed to test his willpower. But Max pushed through, driven by his dream of packed anime club meetings and passionate discussions about best girls and plot armor.
By day 21, he'd found his rhythm. The gym bro he was rooming with—a surprisingly decent guy named Tyler who actually respected personal space—had stopped making constant innuendos, and Max had discovered that marathon rewatching his favorite shows (Bleach, Naruto, Tensura, DBZ, EIS, How a Realist Hero Rebuilt the Kingdom etc.,) was an excellent distraction technique.
Then came the final week. And with it, the university Comic-Con.
It was hell. Pure, concentrated hell.
Cosplayers everywhere, elaborate costumes, the electric energy of thousands of fans celebrating everything he loved. Max was edged daily, his resolve tested by every amazing Yor cosplay, every perfectly executed Nico Robin ensemble. His gym bro roommate watched him with something approaching respect as Max white-knuckled his way through panels and artist alleys, muttering anime opening lyrics under his breath like protective incantations.
But he made it. Day 29. Twenty-nine days of discipline he never knew he possessed. Victory was so close he could taste it—probably tasted like instant ramen and vindication.
As Max and Tyler walked back toward their dorm, the amber glow of streetlights painted long shadows across the pavement. The night air was cool against Max's skin, carrying the faint smell of car exhaust and late-night food trucks. Max allowed himself a small smile. Tomorrow, he'd complete the challenge. The anime club would become reality. He'd finally found his people during Comic-Con, exchanged contact info, made plans. Everything was falling into place.
That's when he saw her.
A small girl, couldn't have been more than seven or eight, stood frozen in the crosswalk. She turned in slow circles, clutching a stuffed animal, her expression lost and frightened. The traffic light had turned, but she seemed paralyzed with confusion, unable to decide which direction led to safety.
Max's feet were moving before his brain caught up. The good guy he claimed to be—the one buried beneath layers of ironic detachment and weeb humor—simply acted. His hand was already extending toward the girl, his pulse quickening.
"Hey, are you—"
That's when the sound hit him like a physical force. A roar of engine and squealing tires, growing impossibly loud, impossibly fast. Max's head snapped to the left, and there it was—headlights blazing like twin suns, a massive truck barreling through the intersection, driver slumped over the wheel.
Time didn't slow down like it did in anime. There was no dramatic music swell, no internal monologue about the meaning of life. There was only instinct, adrenaline flooding his system, and a single, crystal-clear thought cutting through the panic: Not her.
Max lunged forward, hands connecting with the girl's small shoulders. He shoved hard, felt her stumble backward onto the safety of the sidewalk. Tyler's shout rang out somewhere behind him, distorted and distant.
As the truck's grille filled his vision, Max felt something unexpected bloom in his chest. Not the terror he should have felt, but something else entirely—a strange, giddy recognition. His face split into a smile, one that probably looked completely deranged to anyone watching.
Finally, he thought, as the impact came. Truck-kun noticed me.
The Isekai gods, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor and perfect timing.
The moment Truck-kun's grille made contact, Max's world exploded. There was pain—brief, sharp, absolute—and then nothing. His body, the vessel that had carried him through twenty-nine days of unprecedented self-discipline, was obliterated.
But Max—the essence of Max, his consciousness, his soul—was somewhere else entirely.
.
.
.
He was falling?
No, not falling—cruising. Like a leaf caught in an invisible current, directionless and weightless. The sensation was wrong—no wind rushing past, no temperature, no resistance. Just movement through space that shouldn't exist.
There was a moment—brief, impossible to grasp—where he'd sworn someone spoke to him. A voice? A presence? The memory dissolved like smoke the moment he tried to focus on it, leaving only a vague certainty: something had changed him between death and arrival.
But none of that mattered now.
Below him, the world unfurled like the most elaborate anime opening he'd ever witnessed. A vast lake—no, a sea—shimmered in shades of sapphire and turquoise that seemed to shift and dance in light that came from everywhere and nowhere. Lush forests sprawled across rolling hills, their canopies so dense they looked like green oceans unto themselves, swaying in winds he couldn't feel. Mountain ranges jutted up like the jagged teeth of sleeping giants, their peaks crowned with snow that sparkled in sunlight he couldn't quite locate the source of.
And then—holy shit—a city.
Not just any city. A MASSIVE city, easily dwarfing anything he'd seen back home. Buildings packed together in organized chaos, and people—so many people, like ants from this height but distinctly there. At the city's heart, a colossal white tower pierced the sky, jutting upward with the kind of architectural audacity that screamed "important plot location." It looked like a monument, the kind erected in memory of some legendary hero or ancient god.
Max's weeb brain was firing on all cylinders. This is it. This is actually it. I'm IN an Isekai!
The excitement lasted exactly three seconds—until Max registered that the beautiful landscape below was getting closer. Fast. Very fast.
His ethereal form began to solidify, weight returning to limbs he'd thought were gone. The peaceful drift became a plummet.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIT!" Max's voice—did he even have a voice? Could souls scream?—tore from his throat as panic seized him. He flailed, arms windmilling uselessly through empty air, trying to find some purchase in the sky, some way to slow his meteoric descent. I didn't survive Truck-kun just to become a crater on my first day in a fantasy world!
From her vantage point high in Babel Tower, Freya lounged in her usual spot by the window, silver eyes half-lidded in boredom as she gazed out over Orario. Soul-gazing had become routine, almost meditative—watching the colorful glimmers of mortal souls drift through the city like fireflies. Most were predictable. Dull. The same shades of ambition, fear, and desire she'd seen countless times over many years.
Then something streaked across her vision from the west.
A shooting star, blazing across the afternoon sky at impossible speeds, arcing toward the southeast. Freya's eyes tracked it with mild curiosity. Probably some debris a bored god had enchanted for entertainment. It happened more often than mortals realized.
But habit made her look deeper, piercing through the physical shell of the phenomenon to examine what lay beneath.
And she froze.
The soul she saw made her breath catch—something that hadn't happened in decades.
It was dark. Not evil, but layered with a darkness she recognized from the deepest dungeons, from adventurers who'd stared into the abyss and had the abyss cheerfully wave back. But this darkness had a peculiar quality—it pulsed with a rich, burgundy glow, potent and intoxicating, like aged wine mixed with something forbidden.
Yet beneath that, impossibly deeper, she saw it: a pure, gleaming core of silverish-blue light. Radiant. Untouched. A contradiction that made her divine heart race with something mortals might call want but that she understood as need.
Such layers. Such complexity. A soul that was simultaneously tarnished and pristine, jaded and innocent, dark and luminous.
"Ottar," she breathed, not bothering to raise her voice. Her captain would hear her regardless.
Within seconds, the massive boaz appeared, kneeling. "Yes, my goddess?"
Freya's eyes never left the rapidly descending comet. "Send Allen. Now. There's a soul falling from the sky toward the southeast." Her lips curved into a smile that was equal parts anticipation and hunger. "Find it. Bring it to me. I don't care what condition, just... alive."
Ottar didn't question. He never did. Within minutes, Allen Fromel, the fastest adventurer in Orario, was racing through the city streets like a black blur.
The afternoon sky of Orario had been unremarkably clear—until it wasn't.
A blazing trail of light streaked across the heavens, cutting southeast with impossible speed. The phenomenon was visible from every corner of the city—marketplaces fell silent, guards on the walls scrambled to tracking stations, and even the Guild headquarters erupted into controlled chaos as officials tried to determine what they were witnessing.
The city noticed. How could it not? And after years of escalating crime in the streets—mysterious attacks, increased monster activity in the dungeon, tensions between Familias reaching boiling points—Orario was already on edge. This new phenomenon, whatever it was, felt like gasoline being poured on smoldering coals.
In Twilight Manor, Loki watched the comet's descent with calculating eyes, taking another swig of wine.
"Freya's already on it," she muttered to Riveria. "Saw her dog bolt out of Babel like his tail was on fire."
Whatever was falling from the sky, it had arrived at the worst possible time and Orario held its breath, waiting to see what fresh chaos would unfold.
Max, meanwhile, was having what could generously be called "a moment."
His trajectory had taken him past the magnificent city—Orario, his mind supplied helpfully, though he had no idea how he knew that—and now he was sailing toward a forest in the distance.
Okay. Okay, I can work with this. Forests had trees. Trees had branches. Branches would break his fall!
It wasn't a great plan, but it beat becoming a Max-shaped impact crater.
He tried to will his body—his soul? his astral form?—to angle toward the densest part of the forest. Come on, come on, just a few more—
That's when something slammed into him from the side.
The impact sent him spinning wildly, his carefully calculated trajectory completely obliterated. Instead of descending gently into the forest canopy, he rocketed upward like a volleyball spiked by an invisible giant, then arced downward with even more momentum.
Max's consciousness registered water. A lake. A very large, very cold-looking lake directly in his path.
No, no, no—
His swimming instructor's voice echoed from memory, cutting through the panic: 'If you're falling from a height into water, minimize your surface area. Enter like a knife, not a pancake.'
In the split second before impact, Max forced his form into the tightest streamlined position he could manage, making himself as narrow as possible.
He hit the lake's surface like a missile.
The cold was absolute. It wasn't just temperature—it was shocking, invasive, wrapping around him like icy hands. The water exploded upward in a massive geyser, a column of liquid shooting sixty feet into the air. The tranquil lake, which moments ago had been perfectly still, now churned with turbulent waves that radiated outward in concentric circles. Fish scattered in panic. Waterbirds took flight with indignant squawks.
And somewhere in the depths, Max tumbled through cold darkness, disoriented and struggling to process what had just happened. His body—his body?—felt different somehow. Heavier. More solid. More... real than the weightless consciousness that had fallen from the sky.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking away the sting of lake water. The underwater world around him was dim but clear enough to make out shapes moving in the distance. Plants swayed gently in the current, and fish darted between—
Something massive was charging directly at him.
Max's brain registered the creature in horror-movie slow motion: built like a rhinoceros but adapted for aquatic life, with webbed feet the size of dinner plates and a horn that gleamed wickedly even in the filtered sunlight. Its small, predatory eyes locked onto him with the kind of focus that screamed "lunch time."
Every logical part of Max's mind screamed SWIM AWAY. Get to the surface. Get to shore. Get the hell away from the underwater tank bearing down on him like a freight train.
But his body had other plans.
Instead of fleeing, Max felt his arm cock back of its own accord, muscles coiling with a power he'd never possessed. His fist shot forward through the water with impossible speed and force, connecting squarely with the creature's snout.
The impact was devastating.
The aquatic rhino didn't just stop—it rocketed backward through the water as if struck by a train, its massive bulk tumbling end over end before slamming into the lakebed with enough force to create a small crater. Blood clouded the water in dark, spreading tendrils.
Max stared at his fist in shock. What the actual—
Then it hit him. Not another monster, but something far more overwhelming: knowledge.
Memories flooded his consciousness like a dam bursting. But they weren't his memories—they belonged to the body he now inhabited. Martial arts techniques flowed through his mind: stances, combinations, pressure points, killing strikes. Magic theory unfolded in complex diagrams behind his eyes: magic circles, magic manipulation, spell matrices, elemental affinities. And deeper still, an identity that made his blood run cold:
A Devil.
He wasn't just some random isekai character. He was inhabiting the body of a devil, complete with months of combat experience and magical knowledge that would make most mages weep with envy.
His philosophical contemplation was cut short when every instinct in his body suddenly screamed DANGER.
Max's consciousness barely had time to register the threat before his body moved on pure reflex. Magic—his magic, apparently—surged outward in a massive sphere of defensive energy. He'd intended to create a simple barrier, maybe a wall of force to block whatever was coming.
What happened instead was catastrophic overkill.
The magic didn't just create a barrier—it evaporated everything in a fifteen-foot radius around him. Water turned to steam instantly, the heat so intense Max felt it even through his magical protection. The monsters that had been drawn by the blood and commotion simply... ceased. Not killed, not repelled—evaporated. Gone on a molecular level.
For a single, impossible moment, Max found himself floating in a perfect sphere of empty space in the middle of the lake. No water, no creatures, just him suspended in a vacuum that his overpowered magic had carved out of reality itself.
The surrounding water, obeying physics with the reliability of a natural law, immediately rushed in to fill the void.
But Max was no longer interested in experiencing helplessness. As the walls of water converged on his position, he leaped—not up toward the surface, but out and forward, his body moving with the fluid grace of someone who'd never doubted their ability to defy gravity.
He landed on the lake's surface and simply... stood there.
The water supported his weight as if it were solid ground. Max looked down at his feet in amazement, then took an experimental step. The surface held firm beneath him, ripples spreading outward in perfect concentric circles.
Am I a ninja now? The thought was equal parts excitement and disbelief.
In reality, his magical knowledge supplied the answer: he was unconsciously channeling mana to create a thin but incredibly dense layer of force just beneath his feet. It was advanced magic made to look effortless, the kind of technique that would take most mages years to master but came as naturally to this devil body as breathing.
Max took another step, then another, walking across the water like it was the most normal thing in the world. Around him, the lake was slowly settling back to its previous tranquility, though several very confused fish poked their heads above the surface, as if trying to figure out what cosmic force had just rearranged their neighborhood.
In the distance, he could see the shoreline and the forest beyond. Somewhere out there was civilization, adventure, and hopefully answers to questions he was only beginning to formulate.
But first, he needed to figure out exactly whose body he'd inherited—and why a simple defensive spell had just deleted a chunk of reality.
Welcome to the Isekai life, Max, he thought, grinning despite himself as he began walking across the water toward shore. Try not to accidentally destroy anything important.
With that thought making his mood better, he took several more steps across the water's surface, each footfall sending gentle ripples outward as he oriented himself toward the nearest shore. Except, as his memories helpfully informed him about spatial perception and distance calculation, "nearest" was a relative term. The shoreline that had looked comfortably close from his aerial view was actually a few miles away.
Great. Just great.
As if surviving a truck collision, falling through dimensions, nearly drowning, accidentally vaporizing half a lake's ecosystem, and discovering he was now a devil wasn't enough cosmic embarrassment for one day, figures began emerging from the tree line.
They moved with fluid grace, stepping out from the dense foliage like spirits materializing. Their postures were rigid, shoulders squared, weapons held with the easy confidence of those who knew how to use them. And their eyes—those eyes—burned with unmistakable anger.
Max's brain short-circuited for a moment as he processed what he was seeing.
Elves.
Not just elves—both light and dark variants, their skin tones ranging from pale moonlight to rich obsidian, all united in their apparent desire to confront him. They wore armor that somehow managed to be both practical and elegant, form-fitting leather and cloth that wouldn't look out of place in the highest-budget fantasy anime. And those ears—pointed, elegant, absolutely perfect.
Every weeb cell in Max's body screamed in fanboy excitement. He was surrounded by actual elves. The fantasy race that had inspired countless doujinshi, fan art, and heated forum debates. His hands twitched with the overwhelming urge to touch those pointed ears, to confirm their reality.
Focus, Max. They look pissed. Very pissed.
Suppressing his curiosity—and questionable impulses—Max raised both hands in what he hoped was a universal gesture of peace. "Uh, hey there! Sorry about the, um, dramatic entrance. I didn't mean to—"
The elves completely ignored him.
They turned to each other instead, voices rising in what quickly became a heated argument. They gestured wildly at the lake, at him, at the forest behind them, their melodious language flowing so fast Max couldn't parse individual words even with his newfound linguistic knowledge.
He caught fragments: "intruder," "blasphemy," "sacred ritual interrupted," "the Convergence," "Mother's blessing desecrated."
Max's eyebrow twitched. Wait, there was a ritual? What ritual? And who the hell interrupted it? His mind immediately conjured an image of some pompous isekai protagonist who'd probably shown up at the worst possible moment, ruining something important and making Max's life more difficult by association.
I swear, when I find that guy, we're going to have words—
"Without warning, without preamble, without so much as a courtesy 'hey we're about to attack you now,' the elves launched their assault.
'WHAT THE HELL?!' Max yelped, his body moving on instinct as a bolt of crystalline ice magic streaked past where his head had been a millisecond earlier. 'A heads-up would be nice!'
But the elves weren't interested in conversation. They were interested in making him pay.
And Max—still figuring out how his new body worked, still processing that he was actually in a fantasy world, still riding the high of surviving Truck-kun—was about to get his first real combat tutorial.
Courtesy of very angry, very attractive elves who apparently had a grudge.
~~> Devil in a Dungeon <~~
Author's Note:
An idea that wouldn't leave my mind for a while and so I thought to give it a go. It's my first time writing Danmachi. So let me know where I can prove.
Anyway, next chap will be uploaded tomorrow.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.